by Evan Fuller
3
Estate
It was only afternoon, but the sun was already disappearing behind the towering wall that encircled the estate. The man who had restored the ancient mansion had enjoyed his privacy: the plot of land it occupied had once been shared by half a dozen such palaces, decrepit but certainly not beyond salvage. He had been rich enough to purchase them, but rather than increase this wealth by renovating them like his residence and selling them for far more than the price of their acquisition, he had commissioned their destruction and incorporated the land into his own property. Around the expanse was constructed the wall, fifteen feet high in the same stone that had been used to rebuild the mansion. When he had died three years ago, the man had left an estate of which it could be said that, though there were some more extravagant in Rittenhouse, there was certainly none more vast.
“Did you really sleep in my room before?”
Lydia smiled. “Before you came, I lived here for a long time, and yes, I slept in your room.”
The fact was enough to spark the nine-year-old’s enthusiasm. “You should come back,” Geneva decided. “If we shared a room, that would be fun.”
“I have my own home now,” Lydia laughed, “and that room isn’t big enough for the two of us.”
“Yeah, but Oliver says you just got a little ‘partment.” Geneva wrinkled her nose in disdain. “This house is big. You can sleep in another room. ‘Sides it’s only boys here now.”
“I’m here every day anyway,” Lydia said. “And if I took another room, what would we do when we picked up more strays?”
Geneva considered this for a moment. “But we don’t know when we’re goin’ get more. You could stay here now and go back to your ‘partment when they come.”
“Apartment, Geneva,” Lydia replied, emphasizing the first syllable. The younger girl shrugged. “And I like my apartment just fine. Who knows? Maybe the next stray will be a girl to keep you company.”
“When I’m as old as you, will I get an uh—partment?”
Lydia paused. Her present situation had been almost impossible to arrange, and she had at least the advantage of being Farsi. A new surname and a forged note of transit from Ambler had been sufficient to establish her as a newcomer in Rittenhouse. Geneva was a native of the outside, and her Slavic features were clear enough to distinguish her. Perhaps her look would change as she grew and in a few years she’d be able to pass for a Vorteil. But there were no Vorteil coming from Ambler anymore.
“We’ll see,” Lydia said at last, forcing a smile. “Maybe you can share my apartment.”
The girl’s eyes lit up at that. “Can I? Please?”
“Ask me in eight years,” Lydia said.
Geneva skipped ahead, exuberant. Lydia slowed in her walk around the wall’s perimeter, lost in thought, until Geneva's sudden call shook her from her reflection.
“Lydia!” Geneva had doubled back and was running towards her. “I heard something over near the hole.” Geneva had always been told to listen to sounds from the pipe when she was outside, and she was clearly excited to have heard something.
“I’m coming,” Lydia replied, quickening her pace to a jog. The mouth of the pipe was at the back of the property. It was a manhole, its inside coated with aluminum, that led downward into Rittenhouse’s sewer system. The system, which had been constructed by clearing out and rebuilding the pre-extinction sewers, was labyrinthine. It spread under Rittenhouse like roots beneath a tree, reaching for miles beyond it in every direction. It was a deadly path to navigate, but it was a way in.
As Lydia approached, she heard it too: a metallic echo rattling up the walls of the pipe. The echo repeated, three abrupt bursts—coughing?—which were followed by a much louder noise, the sound of a hand striking the wall of the pipe. Then, silence. Lydia gazed down the pit into blackness. “Geneva,” she said softly, “go get Oliver.”
Geneva's eyes were wide; Lydia's tone had stilled her, and she was no longer smiling. “Okay,” she said, and turned towards the house.
Lydia removed her overcoat, folding it neatly and setting it on the ground. The autumn air chilled her bare arms. She hesitated for a moment, trying to estimate the length of the descent, but the floor beyond the pipe was all but invisible. Lydia slowly climbed down the ladder, wincing as flakes of rust broke off the rungs and cut into her palms.
The floor was maybe fifteen feet beneath the mouth of the pipe. Lydia's feet were submersed to the ankles in rancid water; her legs quivered at the contact. The sewer was ink-black except for the circle of shallow water illuminated by the distant sunlight above, but Lydia could hear the sound of a strong current rushing beyond the small platform on which she stood. She took a tentative step and almost tripped over him: the boy lay doubled over, trembling on the floor of the tunnel. Lydia wondered how many hours he'd been lying there, too weak to ascend on his own.
Lydia bent over the child, gagging as she drew closer to the sewage. He was almost naked; he had likely shed his clothing as he traveled. “Can you hear me?” she asked, touching his side. His skin was as cold as the water; he'd been in the sewers for too long. He appeared to be conscious, but just barely, and he was heaving too violently to respond. Lydia put her other hand on his side, trying to pull the boy to his feet. “You're almost there, but we have to get you up this ladder.”
The child rose, staggered towards the wall, and caught himself with an outstretched hand. He heaved again and lost balance; Lydia caught him and wrapped her arms around his chest. How long had he gone without eating? He was sickeningly thin. Lydia walked him towards the ladder; he was smaller than she was, but it took all her strength to carry his sagging body without tumbling over. She inhaled deeply and felt bile rise to her throat in response to the putrid air.
“Lydia?” a voice finally called from the mouth of the drainpipe. “I'm here,” she shouted back. “Please tell me you brought a rope!”
Oliver's silhouette filled the disc of light overhead, and moment later she heard a small splash as the end of a cord was dropped into the water beside her. Balancing the boy with one hand, Lydia bent and groped blindly for it. Her fingers were numb from the cold, and then—there!—she found the cord. She tied it around the boy's waist, her hands trembling so violently that it took three tries to form the knot. “Alright!” she called to Oliver. “We're coming up, but he's not in great shape. Whatever happens, don't let go of that rope, okay?”
Oliver's affirmation echoed down. “Listen,” she said to the boy. “I'm going to try to help you up, but you have to work with me. Can you do it?”
The child nodded, his teeth clattering.
“Okay,” Lydia said, “I'll come up behind you.” The boy slowly began his ascent. Lydia followed him up the ladder. The pace was agonizingly slow, and sewer water rained on her from the boy's soaking cotton pants as he climbed ahead, but they rose the first ten feet without event. Then, suddenly, the child's trembling leg slipped off a rung. The cord jerked, giving about a foot before holding steady. A tinny “Damnit!” resounded off the walls of the pipe, and a moment later a flailing leg collided with Lydia's head. She nearly lost her hold as well. At last the boy found his footing again, and a minute later the two of them reached climbed out onto the grass.
Oliver relaxed his hold on the rope. “You smell—”
“Don't say it,” Lydia gasped.
“I helped hold the rope!” Geneva announced importantly.
“Yeah,” Oliver said, “I really thought we were going to lose it for a moment there.”
Geneva got her first good glimpse of the newcomer and began to pout. “You said I'd get a girl to play with,” she told Lydia accusingly, “but it's just another boy.”
“Guys.” Lydia twisted her hair with both hands, wringing some of the filth from it. “Could we just—” Cough. “Just give me a moment. Please.” She glanced at the boy, who was laying, apparently unconscious, on the grass beside them. It was a good thing his energy hadn't expired a mome
nt sooner. In the light, Lydia saw him clearly for the first time: he appeared to be a mulatto, with a freckled face and short, tangled hair. He looked even thinner than he had felt in her arms. But most noticeable were the lesions that pockmarked his skin. The infection was advanced; it appeared that it had been developing for months. The sewer water hadn't improved them: the mouths of the open wounds were coated in a slimy greenish gray. Well, Lydia thought, if there's any hope for him, it's here. Aloud she said, “Let's get him inside.”